


Sonnet 130

by mudkipwrites



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love/Hate, Other, References to Shakespeare, Shakespearean Sonnets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-02-01 03:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21363646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites
Summary: Gabriel calls on Aziraphale for assistance in courting a demonic lover.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 158





	Sonnet 130

_Sonnet 130_

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

_My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;_  
_Coral is far more red than her lips' red;_  
_If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;_  
_If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head._  
_I have seen roses damasked, red and white,_  
_But no such roses see I in her cheeks;_  
_And in some perfumes is there more delight_  
_Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks._  
_I love to hear her speak, yet well I know_  
_That music hath a far more pleasing sound;_  
_I grant I never saw a goddess go;_  
_My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground._  
_And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare_  
_As any she belied with false compare._

It is another cozy, late-winter afternoon at _ A.Z. Fell & Co: Antiquarian & Unusual Books. _Aziraphale is sitting in his favorite chair by the fireplace, paging through one of his illuminated manuscripts with gloved hands. Cat-eye glasses, a marvelous brown-and-purple tortoiseshell, perch on the bridge of his nose. Crowley, in snake-form, lounges around his middle and chest. 

The knock at the door disturbs their tranquility. 

From under Aziraphale’s heavy, Welsh sweater, Crowley stirs, and softly hisses. _ “Angel,” _ he murmurs, “We’ve got _ company.” _

Aziraphale coos and strokes at the serpent’s head. “It’s probably just the carolers, darling.” He replies. 

“It’s February.” 

“Or the Girl Scouts!” 

Crowley frowns. “Did you finish the cookies?” 

Not answering, Aziraphale calls out, “Who is it?” 

There is no response. Instead, with a loud popping sound, an archangel manifests in their doorway. 

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel calls out, brushing powdery snow off his shoulders. “Is the Principality Aziraphale home at this moment?” 

As Aziraphale knows, this is a purely perfunctory kind of politeness. Of _course,_ Gabriel knows that he is home. It’s his _bookshop, _for Heaven’s sake! _(Plus, he knows the archangel can sense it. What other being of celestial love dwells with a demonic husband right here on earth?) _

“Gabriel?” he rises from his chair by the fire. He tries to infuse his tone tone with cool confidence. “Looking for me?” 

Since their little ‘standoff’ after the Not-Pocalypse, Aziraphale knows that he has earned himself more respect from Heaven’s agents. All of Gabriel’s visits have been brief, and stiffly-respectful. He does not expect trouble, but he’s still a bit wary _ (and who wouldn’t be, after those death-threats?) _

Gabriel steps into the room, violet eyes glowing against his grey suit. He is taller and broader than most human men, and his corporal form is far too striking to be realistic.

“Yes!” He says brightly. “How does this day find you, Sunshine?” 

Crowley gives a little growl of disapproval, and Gabriel stares at his lumpy sweater. 

“Er,” Aziraphale says, folding his fingers over his belly in a mirror of prayer. “Surprised! Your visit is..._ unexpected.” _

Gabriel looks a little uncomfortable. “Yes,” he says, fidgeting with his long scarf. “Rather. Yes. Unexpected.” 

The moment goes long, and Aziraphale chews on the inside of one lip. _ (Gabriel has a presence that makes even the most commonplace things excessively awkward). _“Umm. I was just going to put on some tea. Would you like a cup?” 

To the angel’s surprise, Gabriel’s face blooms wide with relief. “Yes!” He exclaims. “Yes, _ great. _ That’d be _ exceptional.” _

Struggling to keep his eyebrows where they belong, Aziraphale motions to the burgundy loveseat with golden-clawed footrest. “Make yourself comfortable,” he invites the archangel, “I won’t be a moment.” Gabriel sighs, and sinks into the cushions.

As Aziraphale shuffles into the kitchen, searching for the good saucers, without chips, Crowley pops his head out from his collar. “_ What on earth is all that about?!” _His demon hisses. 

Aziraphale takes his time as he walks about the kitchen. “Easy, dear boy.” He soothes.”I know you’re cranky from all this cold weather. But: I won’t let him harm you.” He strokes two fingers against the serpent’s nose. 

Crowley huffs and cinches his grip around the angel’s middle a bit tighter. “‘M’not _ scared, _ or anything!” he insists. “I just! Don’t like having...that... _ abomination _darkening our doorway!” 

Aziraphale cannot help but smile a bit as he pours the boiling water from their steaming kettle. 

“Abomination, you say?” 

Crowley grumbles and sighs as Aziraphale stirs in milk and honey. 

“Oh, don’t you worry, _ foul fiend. _ Nothing in this cosmos shall _ ever _ separate me from you again.” 

Even in snake form, Crowley flushes at that. 

“I _ said, _ I’m not _ worried! _ It’s, just: very _ strange. _ Gabriel? Calling at our _ home? _ At _ this _hour? What could he possibly want, if not some kind of violent, Heavenly vengeance?” 

Aziraphale simply kisses his husband on the top of his flat, scaly head. For his part, he does not sense any ill intent coming from the other angel. If Gabriel had come to harm them, he would know already. Thus he carefully delivers the steaming tray into the sitting-room, placing it before the archangel. 

Gabriel is sitting stiffly on the soft-backed chair, as if his military sensibilities won’t allow him to relax. He’s holding an old, leather-hide book at arms’ length, and looking at it as if he cannot understand the words written upon it. This manuscript--despite Aziraphale’s careful repairing and doting--is fragile, cracked and dusty. Its pages cling just _ barely _ to the well-worn binding, a the way Gabriel is holding it makes Aziraphale’s heart lurch in his chest. _ (It takes discipline not to pull out the flaming, divine sword from his pocket-dimension!). _

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale asks, forcing a calmness into his voice. “Please, do be careful with that. It’s a very, _ very _old book. Perhaps, the first and last of its kind ever written.” 

Gabriel nods. His mouth gives a grim twist. Haltingly, he admits: “Yes…I know. It’s....it’s what I came for.” 

Puzzled, Aziraphale sits. When it becomes clear that Gabriel is stuck Aziraphale coughs. Gabriel _ jumps _ . He is _ blushing, _Aziraphale notes. 

“Do you…need help, translating it?” Aziraphale asks, not unkindly. He doesn’t want to patronize Gabriel (God, he knows how _ that _ feels!), but he wonders if sometimes celestials have less practice with speaking and reading in the human languages. 

“No, no.” Gabriel bushes a hand over his face. “It’s fine.” He peeks through his fingers. Aziraphale waits, his face the equivalent of the verbal prompt, _ go on! _

“Oh, _ alright _then.” Gabriel assents. He sighs, begins reading from the top of the page. “My mistress' eyes / are nothing like the sun.” 

“Oh! Aziraphale interrupts, “I _ love _ that one!” For the moment, he forgets himself in the pleasure of Shakespeare; the angel’s delight for poetry, _ especially _ sonnets, is tantamount even to his distaste for the archangel _ fucking _ Gabriel. “Do go on, then!” 

Gabriel pauses, face flushed and blotchy. (_ It’s really a refreshing look, _ Aziraphale thinks, _ this anxiety on him. _ ) Then, he recovers himself enough to continue: “C-coral is _ far more red _ than her lips’ red is; / and, if snow be white, why! Then her _ breasts _ are _ dun; _/ and, if hairs be wires, then, black wires grow upon her head.” 

Aziraphale wriggles happily in his chair. Gabriel, for his part, once again buries his face in his hands. It seems as though he cannot go on. 

Crowley pokes his head out from Aziraphale’s shirtsleeve.

“Well, that’s not very nice!” 

Gabriel starts, his eyes snapping up to the demon. His gaze grows wide and panicky, and he looks back and forth from Aziraphale to Crowley. 

_ “You!” _he gasps. 

“Me.” Crowley chirps happily.

Aziraphale scowls. He knows that the demon is enjoying Gabriel’s discomfort far too much. Restraining the urge to pinch him, he adds, “Yes. It’s Crowley.” 

Gabriel’s mouth flaps open and shut. When he finally clenches his jaw, his voice comes out, strained and angry. “I _ knew _ he was _ here, _ in this _ bookshop. _ Everything practically _ reeks _of brimstone and hellfire.” 

Crowley snorts and rolls his slitted eyes.

Aziraphale shushes him. 

“But I didn’t know—” Gabriel’s tongue seems to stick in his throat, “What I didn’t realize—” 

“_ Ooohhhh.” _ Crowley says, and his eyes open wide. He whips his head around to gaze at Aziraphale. “Angel!’ He exclaims. _ “He’sss _ got a _ crusssssh!” _

Gabriel splutters with indignation, and Aziraphale gasps in delighted wonder. He raises his eyebrows at Crowley, who does his best to waggle what accounts for his. 

“You know this?” Aziraphale asks, marvelling at his serpent. “Aren’t you just _ brilliant _ as you are _ beautiful?” _He strokes a finger down Crowley’s pointed muzzle. 

Gabriel chokes. “It’s not!” He protests. “What I mean to say, is!--” 

“You can sense _ love, Angel…” _ Crowley drawls, flicking his forked tongue in and out in the air. “And I? _ Demons _ can sense _ lust.”_

Crowley gestures with a nod of his head, “The archangel here is coming to you—” he opens his mouth in the snake’s equivalent of a smile—” _ crawling, _ really, on hands and knees, for your _ advicsseeee.” _

Aziraphale stares, both surprised and amused, at the changing complexion of Gabriel’s face. Reading there what Crowley has plainly expressed, He tickles the chin of his clever serpent. 

“Why _ me?” _Aziraphale asks aloud, both to Crowley and Gabriel. “Surely, an angel such as Dwynwen is more suited to help you with this?” 

Gabriel looks as though he might be sick. His face is undulating colors: from white, to red, to green, then to white again. Finally, ashen, he croaks: _ “Heaven _ can’t handle... _ this._” He gestures meekly, at the book and his chest, looking all the world for a man defeated. 

Frowning, Aziraphale raises from his chair. He comes to sit at the footstool near Gabriel, placing a gentle hand on his knee. _ (He’s a bastard, _ Aziraphale thinks. _ Yet, I’m _ also _ a bit of a bastard. If I deserve things such as tenderness or forgiveness, shouldn’t I offer that, even to Gabriel?) _ It’s clear that the being is deeply troubled by his affections, and Aziraphale _ knows _what it’s like to suffer. 

“Tell me?” 

“It’s a demon.” Crowley says shrewdly.

He’s slithered out of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, and is currently unfolding himself into human form. “Tell me I’m right.” 

Gabriel sighs, looking heartsick. “You’re _ right.” _he says, miserably. 

Crowley laughs. “Oh!” He exclaims, pointy, human hips writhing with pleasure. “This is _ too good, too sweet! _ Justice is _ served, _on a shit-covered platter! Am I right, Angel?!” He says, punching Gabriel’s arm. (It’s a sign of how low Gabriel is feeling that he doesn’t so much as flinch). “How does it feel, on the other side, buddy?!” 

“_Loathsome!” _Gabriel groans, face to his hands. 

Slowly, Crowley stops his lewd dancing, and glances at Aziraphale. His glee is fading rapidly now to mirror what is Aziraphale’s troubled concern.

“Hey…” He says gently, squatting down to get at Gabriel’s eye-level. He pokes at the archangel’s folded hands, until the man peeks out with a haggard, violet gaze. “You’re..actually _ torn up _about all of this, aren’t ya?” 

Aziraphale sighs and places a hand on the demon’s shoulder. “Crowley. Maybe you better give us some privacy?” Crowley blinks, and he adds, “You know. Angel-to-angel?” 

“That supposed to be a Fallen joke?” Crowley smirks, attempting at levity. 

_ “Vile tempter. _” Aziraphale kisses him fondly. 

Crowley, hips swaying, strides out of the room. Aziraphale knows that he’s only waiting and listening, just outside the door, around the corner, doing his best to respect his wishes. Demon now fully-expelled from the room, Aziraphale reaches and clasps Gabriel’s hand. 

“Gabriel.” He says. “I know you don’t like me. And I don’t like you. But I know that you’ve come here, for answers, and that takes some courage.” He pauses, and allows Gabriel to meet his eyes. “Whatever it is that you need to say, it shall stay safe with me.” 

Gabriel gives him a timid, bleak smile. 

“Angel’s honor. This bookstore is my haven and refuge of safety. Whatever you need to do, we can help you. I’ll do the best I can to help you through it.” 

“_Angel’s honor.” _ Gabriel repeats softly. He snorts, shaking his dark and beautiful head. “So much for that, _falling _ for a _ demon.” _

Aziraphale chuckles, and gives Gabriel a squeeze of the hand. “Perhaps, it is Her showing us a sense of humor.” Gabriel frowns, and Aziraphale shrugs cheerfully back. “You know. Reminding us that we _ aren’t God? _ And, therefore, _ imperfect?” _

Gabriel huffs, sitting taller and adjusting his suit. “I never claimed to be God,” he mutters, looking away. “I just wanted to be..._ righteous. _In all the senses.” Aziraphale waits for him to say more. After a moment, Gabriel adds, “Which. This isn’t.” 

Humming, Aziraphale draws back his hands. Gabriel seems to be sitting straighter, _ taller, _ as if some dignity has come back into his spine. _ (Good. Aziraphale doesn’t fancy propping up this man a minute longer than needed to). _He guess he might now be ready for feedback. 

“Is it wrong?” Aziraphale asks, taking a dainty sip from his cup. “Do you think it wrong, _ really, _ to have an _ abundance _ of love for a Fallen?” He drinks from the cup, examining Gabriel’s surprised reaction over the rim. “Consider the evidence. First of all: I haven’t _ descended from grace, _or what have you, as one may imagine. Crowley and I--what we share, in our marriage, in our bed—” 

Gabriel makes a distressed sort of noise, and Aziraphale moves to the next topic. “Secondly. Wouldn’t you argue that it’s an act of_ forgiveness? _Perhaps, there might even be some ‘evangelism’ involved.” 

The frown on Gabriel’s face says he’s not buying it. “Tell me, Principality Aziraphale.” He says irritably. “What _ do _your ‘confession and forgiveness’ ceremonies look like?” 

Aziraphale rushes on. “But, perhaps, thirdly: the most striking of all. Wouldn’t it be possible—” he narrows his eyes at Gabriel for impact—”Wouldn’t it make _ sense, _ that an act of love so whole, so _ divine, _ for one of the _ Fallen, _would be the greatest service of mercy and compassion that She might offer?” 

When Gabriel twitches, Aziraphale knows that he has him. 

“Just think of it! Knowing, full-well, what sin one has done--what sin one is willing to do--and yet, loving them all the same. If not _ more. _ Because, you see that one for the very _ best _of them. You see them, even with their capacity for violence, as someone worthy of kindness and worthy of love. Don’t you think extending such love is the very most real, most challenging ministry She might invite you to?” 

It looks like there’s a war in Gabriel’s chest. Aziraphale fancies that there _ is _some sort of one, given that he’s been a staunch opponent of Hell for so long. Finally, Gabriel’s eyes return to the pages, scanning over Shakespeare’s curving words. 

“ / And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as rare / As any belied with false compare.” 

Gabriel sighs, runs a hand through his short-cropped hair. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale smiles. “Yes, even so.” 

Gabriel stares into the thin air. His lips are moving, as though he is speaking to someone he cannot hear. Aziraphale watches him contentedly, taking another sip from his cup. Then, abruptly, Gabriel addresses him. 

“I’ve got to go now,” he says, rising from the sofa. 

“Yes, you do.” 

When he stands, Aziraphale waits for Gabriel to say something. _ ( _ Maybe, _ Thank-You, _ he thinks. Or, Maybe: _ I was wrong, Aziraphale. You were right all along. This love between you and Crowley? It’s Good. Very Good. It’s righteous, and holy. You were indeed crafted together, made for one another, for a life of blessing and love in Her name. Anything I ever suggested otherwise…) _

But it’s too much to hope for. Gabriel simply sticks out his arm, and gives Aziraphale a brief, pumping handshake. 

“Right then,” He says, all business in his again. “I’ll see you again, Principality Aziraphale.” As he walks across the hardwood floor of the bookshop, he calls over his shoulder: “And don’t mention this to Sandelphon, Michel and Uriel!” 

“I won’t mention it anywhere.” Aziraphale says, hearing Gabriel disappear with a _ pop. _

Crowley saunters around the corner, all long-legs and smugness. _ “Hey.” _He says, wrapping his arms around from behind Aziraphale. “Did you take care of our angelic problem?” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale sighs, leaning back into the comforting heat of Crowley. “At least, for now. I suspect he will be back.” 

Crowley laughs softly into Aziraphale’s skin.

“Oh, most _ certainly!” _ He says, voice rich with mirth. “Courting _ Lord Beelzebub _will not be for the faint of heart!” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


****

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a comment and/or kudos if you have the time. <3


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